trace

there is nothing empty, ever. various iterations of filled. of being finished. or waiting.
yet, i too profess often.
i am empty. very. but often, lifted by a false hope. one that becomes all too real. like mother's eyes. father's fear. often, an old house in a decrepit alley, where i want to live again. only to leave. leaving behind squirming scorpions with shiny claws. hungry.
again i am sad, too. often, believing and then rejecting you, as in you saying you are empty as well. i distrust words more than i trust them. but then also, i get happy that there is nothing to find. finally, respite from finding. and from losing. and then this: happiness and fulfillment do not need to meet always. what revelation. they do not need to sit side by side on the cold metal chairs, drink coffee, eat strange fruit, and watch the last sun set on the river that has changed course often than we think rivers should.
and then this: what a relieving pathology, that may not produce disease but will cause pain?